Wafting tufts of burning ermine,
A shower of shards of chipped gold paint.
No coach could handle that sharp turning
On the road to meet the saint.
The saint squats, miles beyond the backspot,
In a hermitage of bones,
Metal sheets, planks pocked with wet rot,
Flapping prayer flags, mobile phones.
The coach, heart of the grand procession,
Had been packed full of dynamite
To guard the monarch with discretion
From any little oversight.
Perhaps the watching, cheering peasants
Might yearn to seek the monarch’s grace
And storm the coach! The monarch’s presence
Now constituted half a face.
Nor were there any peasants cheering.
The recent plague had seen them off.
Though in a nearby forest clearing
Five huddled, trying not to cough.
The coach careened as it had cornered
And tipped exploding down the gulch.
Regal scraps rained; local fauna’d
Browsed upon the royal mulch.
The carts behind the coach had splintered
And the monarch’s retinue,
With whom the monarch overwintered,
Became a gory curlicue.
The pilgrimage to seek out saintly
Intercession with a miracle
Had been the monarch’s idea, quaintly,
To defy the dark empirical.
The plan had left the courtiers quizzical:
The nation could be saved through prayer?
The monarch was now metaphysical
Smithereened into the air.
The saint ignored the monarch’s lateness
And chewed upon a soggy frond
Meditating on the greatness
Of the infinite beyond
And soon was quite obscured by drizzle
Which washed away the monarch’s sins,
Not knowing if to laugh or grizzle,
Each separate as conjoined twins.